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04 April 2011

kitchens are never just about cooking. they are communities, cities, families, gangs, partnerships, cities, empires, kingdoms, islands, homes, churches, refuges, prisons, forests. schools of fish could teach us a thing or two.

no one goes to work amongst their brethren just because. we all seek more than money when we sign up to be employed. for those of us who appreciate someone else besides ourselves signing said paycheck, we give and get something from working for others, with others.

I worked my first 80+ hour work week before the age of 16. I come from a family of non-retiring people. I like working. I don't feel like I'm working [very hard] unless my job is physical.

people ask me when did I {know I wanted to} want to be a chef. never. not once was being a chef my goal. I wanted to cook professionally nearabout 1991 and when I began, I had reached my goal.

unbeknownst to me, I had been preparing and was prepared to work in kitchens well before I stepped foot into one. although I didn't know the vernacular ['all day what?'], and owned not a single knife, many bosses and supervisors had trained me to shut up, suit up, and show up no matter what was going on in the rest of my life. being a latch-key kid meant knowing that I had only me to clean up the house & real life messes I made. no one ever grounded me but I spent a lot of nights in public parks. I started washing dishes in grade school and was cleaning the whole apartment by Junior High. my mother worked at home & I learned how to answer the phone politely & take a detailed message.

or you can wait until you're in your 20's and have some chef kick the shit out of you, every day, until it's learned into you. engraved. carved. branded.

I don't care if you work in a Michelin rated restaurant or a 20 seat lunch counter, these words will help you in kitchen as in life.

a little of any of these goes for miles in dog years.reliability. accountability. cleanliness. humility. manners. efficiency.

a chef I worked with once used to say, "You have to be able to go to bed with yourself at night." in other words: where is your fucking integrity?

esteemable acts build self esteem.

nothing else. no bling, no sex, no person, no awards, no TV spots, no stock options, no trust fund, no purebred dog, no wedding in East Hampton, no name in bright lights, no knives named after you, no resume,

because when you're a cook among cooks, it's a god damned verb. we cook. action. active. constant. repeat.

c r a f t.

we cooks respect the now. we don't care where you've been, who you've fucked, how many hours you worked at your last job, where your scars come from, what the NY Times said about you, what your jacket's been embroidered with, how much French you speak, how many varietals of mushrooms you know, what you think of sea salt, how many farms you've visited, where you started, how long you've been doing it.

cooks watch. cooks listen.

how elegant are you on the line? is every plate the same? at what point will you break and start cutting corners? are you cleaner, faster, more efficient than me?

how about your manners? do you kiss certain people's ass and talk shit behind another's? do you say hello to everyone by name when you walk in the door? do you shake everyone's hand regardless of position? do you wait until someone asks you for help before giving it freely? when your fellows are in the weeds do you jump in to help? do you know how to listen with more than your ears? do you thank the people who have helped you? when you give notice are you graceful?

kitchens are old school. they're not necessarily democracies, even if the government they've grown up in is. the manners chefs in most kitchens expect might be considered 'old fashioned.' I say it's better to err on old fashioned. few people will fault you for saying 'please,' 'thank you,' and 'Yes, Chef.' most chefs don't want to hear what you think or even have time for a discussion when they're correcting or talking to you. if you think you know better, do better. if you think you can do better, what the fuck are you waiting for? if you made a mistake, be grateful your chef noticed, take [immediate!] heed, move on. if you're sure you know better than your chef, you're in the wrong fucking kitchen-- leave and go where the chef knows more than you or become a sous chef so you can feel the pleasure of constantly being wedged between a rock & a harder place.

even if you're front of house.especially if you're front of house.

the chefs are considered the parents of the house, even if they don't pay the mortgage.

you think that when you become a chef it will be all about cooking. all about baking. all about food. you and the meditation of kitchen. but once you become someone responsible for humans and not just carrots, the game changes forever. carrots don't braise themselves. cakes don't rise because you hope they will. all those burgers don't get to temp at the wave of your expert hand.

and it's not just chefs who are 'in charge of' cooks. cooks need to be in charge of themselves. they need to go to bed with themselves at night. cooks need to rely on one another. cooks need to speak to and with one another. they need to watch and listen and learn who are the good ones amongst them all. stick with the winners is what I say. cooks need to work next to, with, alongside their prep staff. a chef du partie is only as good as her commis. a commis is only as good as his chef du partie.

because what you learn in the kitchen, what you learn on the floor: when that person who has been around your block a few more times than you, takes the time to pass on their experience, pass on a few words of encouragement/critique/acknowledgement/compliment/admonishment, they're doing it for the you of you, not merely the you of the numbers on your paycheck.

listen and use these words, these exercises, these lessons, these challenges/growing opportunities to water your integrity, to nourish your self esteem, to honor humility, to pay homage to your craft. use these exercises, these lessons, these challenges/growing opportunities to the betterment of your kitchen, you, your goals, and whomever you choose to pass them onto next.

for these are not merely kitchen lessons, these are life lessons.

keep them as clean and as sharp as your knives, and they will never steer you wrong.

26 February 2011

Edible: East Village Bakery Uses Sweet Elements Of Surprise

I must say, for the record, what an absolute pleasure and honor it was to work with Rachel Wharton! She is as smart and beautiful and funny and silly and lively and dynamic and down-to-earth as she appears here.

Coming from the Bay Area I had no preparation for the serious, thick, "glossy," thorough magazines that are Edible Manhattan & Edible Brooklyn. They're doing some fine work. Especially considering all that's going on food-wise in the little big apple.

It was great fun, don't get me wrong, once the lights were on and my sharp, beautiful, smart, funny, adept gracious director, Kelly Choi, was telling me what to do and getting me to talk about food and spices and why gingerbread and ginger cake should be spicy, not flat, all was well in the world. We even really baked one together! And really ate it! Not just on TV.

And not just any TV, but on the little televisions now in every New York City yellow cab. On Thanksgiving.

If you watch it yourselfyou'll also get to have a peek into Pastrylandia! It's my pet name for my not-so-diminuitive pastry/bakery station/production area below sea level on Joey Ramone place and 2nd street, on the Bowery: home of Peels, my new home.

05 December 2010

For a few years now I've had an idea. I've thought about how terrible it is for the dead to miss their own obituaries. I've often wondered if a person's quality of life might be bettered if she/he knew how appreciated they were. I've had the idea to memorialize the living, not merely the deceased.

I've seen newspaper writers vie to be the ones who set down those words describing those lives as past tense. And I've witnessed thin, hungry and absent obituaries. Unattended memorials. Wordless friends, affection starved grief.

I've read final books, written in someone's last years, and memoirs written in what we call someone's mid-life. We're really lucky if people we love and admire set down words, create art and leave us with something to hear them by, after they die. But it doesn't mean we should wait until they're gone to celebrate them, and what they mean to us, while they are still alive and meandering, imperfectly along, weaving in, like knitted yarn, through their lives and ours.

It can really embarass someone to tell them how much you appreciate their presence in your life. I have friends and colleagues for whom these words would make their skin crawl with disgust. I work for and with and have working for me, people for whom words like this would make them run screaming.

The person who thinks they are the best is the same narcissist who thinks they are the worst.

Some of us are very hard on ourselves. And positive or negative words from those we admire feel the same: like a lie.

I used to work with someone who would have never let you finish a sentence of sappyness. Macho. Or macha, as sex-specific romance language goes. Compliments and criticisms went to the same place with her: on the floor. She wasn't having any of it. Just get the work done. And have a drink after work. Or six. But then one morning, on a day everyone in my generation will remember, she died. Destroyed, evaporated, murdered. Few words left behind. To write any felt impossibly difficult and necessary both.

The difficult and the necessary.

What eggbeater is about. As you know, I sometimes say what no one wants to hear. I sometimes speak for those who can not. I hope to speak from the heart of my industry. {all is fair in love & war} I write words free of sponsored agenda. I work inside real kitchens with real people and real issues, personal and political, domestic and international, human and historical.

I want my idea to become real. I'm going to start writing Living Memorials.

Some of them might be formal, some of them all-inclusive, some of people you have already heard of, some I'm sure don't even know who I am, some of people I've known my whole life.

They will be about people whose lives I find wondrous, complicated, inspiring, joyful, radical, humble, tough, sharp, mysterious, generous, sexy, intense, quixotic, adventurous, frightening, enviable, quiet, colorful and more or less, depending on how you see and experience them yourself.

And I would like you to join me.

If you take up space online, please consider this an open invitation to write a Living Meme too.

There are no rules, none that I'm going to make, at any rate. I just want to see more celebratory words set down about people who are alive and actively living, doing, being. Foibles and all.

26 November 2010

you might remember when I was a Pielebrity, aka a Pie Contest Judge for this fantastic fellow in 2008...Just in case you can make it to 2010~

friends,

in these final weeks of fine-tuning our recipes for the upcoming gala, it becomes necessary that we review some of the basic event parameters. in so doing, we provide competitors and spectators alike the appropriate amount of time to compose complaint letters, construct picket signs and so on.

as many of you know already, pie off adheres to a strict discipline of rules and regulations. we are nothing as a pie society if not civilized. and we gladly accept the rigid guidelines that govern us. for example, we understand that pies are made in a round pie plate, at least nine inches in diameter. we too recognize that pies, by definition, have a bottom homemade crust.

these are not matters for debate. as a civilized pie society, we revel in the celebration of a well-crafted, baked good. what is subject for reflection and clarification this year is the appropriate ingredients for pie filling. a bedrock principle of pie offs past has been fruit-based dessert pies only. no exceptions. ohhhhh, many a baker has fallen prey to these strictures in years past. wielders of rhubarb, chocolate, and sweet potato alike have all met the swift, uncompromising hand of disqualification.

but friends, it is a new day. and with the advent of pie off 2010 - winter x games we have reached a watershed moment in the event's evolution. and so, it is not without some reluctance that i announce, on behalf of the pie off steering committee, and its intercontinental advisory board, that this year, ALL manner of dessert pies may enter the pie off hall of champions.

...as you may imagine, the writing of this email has been as exhausting and boring as i am sure the reading of it has been. so i retire now to the kitchen, where many variations of crust and filling await my consideration. in time, more event details shall be revealed -- time, place, entry fee, security measures. but for now, we must rest. and plan.

and dream.

dr. rainbow (for the pie off steering committee, p.o.s.c.)

pie off winter x games december 4, 2010 bay area

~

Dear Pie Off Community,

Our chairperson Dr. Rainbow has asked us to release this year’s RFJ – Request for Judges. If you or someone you know would like to judge Pie Off Winter X Games, please take a moment to complete our brief Pie Judge Personality Inventory. Rate your answers on a scale of 1 (strongly agree) to 5 (strongly disagree).

A Pie Off Steering Committee representative will be in touch with you regarding your answers. Thank you.

25 November 2010

When was the last time you noticed how accomodating, how helpful, how understanding, how supportive your chef, team, management was? Did you thank anyone? Out loud? Why not? What the fuck are you waiting for?

Have you stopped for one minute to take a look around? When was the last time you helped someone from another department, another station, another side of the kitchen? Do you know the names of the people you work with? Have you tried to learn any kitchen Spanish?

When was the last time you looked at someone else's list and asked them if they needed any help? When was the last time you taught something? Asked to learn something new?

Have you ever asked someone in the restaurant, not in your department, what the challenges of their job are, for them? Have you ever imagined yourself in the dishwasher's shoes?

---------

Let me tell you a story.

In late 1998 I found myself working at The French Laundry. Now you can say anything you want about that, but it would all be bullshit, unless you were there.

For all the glitter and gilt and faerie dust surrounding this famous restaurant, it was a small, mean, competitive kitchen in a town the size of an elbow in the middle of a mono-cropped valley dedicated to the growing of wine grapes. This meant that on my way to work I watched crop dusters spray poison quietly. This meant that on my way to work I watched tractors kick up soil and on my way home the same tractors, doing the same thing. This meant that on my way to work I watched hot air balloons ascend and thousands of Mexican men tend to the precious vines. It was idyllic and hell. Fake and real.

The winter I arrived the President declared a National State of Emergency for Napa. It rained and flooded and people's livelihoods were taken down the river.

And in the summer, Napa is hot. 120F from 7 am-10pm for 16 days straight hot. You don't pee or sweat or cry hot.

Thomas Keller designed the kitchen that you see today at his restaurant. Every detail thought of by him. Implemented, paid for, by him.

On the very first day I arrived at the restaurant, I noticed the windows. The French Laundry kitchen has windows.

So the day he installed an awning over the walk-in, which was outside, I noticed. That day I did not get soaking wet on my way to and from the walk in. I walked right up to my Chef, and thanked him. Aloud. We shook hands. Because that's how TK works. Manners. Old School. Proper.

I thanked him for the windows too. He looked bewildered.

"This is the first kitchen I have ever worked in with windows in the kitchen. Windows that were not sealed or blocked or locked. Windows that see out, windows that open, that's wonderful. Thank you for doing that, Chef."

You know why?

Because he fucking put them there, that's why.

Because he wanted windows for his staff, for his kitchen. His kitchen: his h o m e. So we could see out, so diners could see in.

I thanked him aloud a lot. Because after working for a bit in this godless industry, I knew.

I think I've spoiled my cooks. Especially my new ones. I give them all their schedule requests. I give them 2 days off in a row. I give them weekends off. Holidays. They get to take home food. They get paid for every hour they work. They get a great staff meal, more than a few times a day. They work 5 days a week. I'm in the kitchen, doing production alongside them, every day. I teach and support and answer questions and problem solve.

It's common manners they lack. Upper Management offered each and every one of them a gift for their Thanksgiving dinner and not a single one of them a. thanked management or b. took the gift.

I was mystefied. Stunned. Disappointed. Angry. Livid.

Ashamed.

Self-Entitled much?

The self deserving thing? The "I see you do all these things to accommodate me but I want more more more and no I won't say thank you or show my appreciation in any way"? Yeah, no. Yeah, no and fuck you very much.

When you can't say "Thank You," outloud, for anything... Those gifts? That support? Those schedule requests? Those days off in a row? That list I let you pass off to someone else? That raise? That set schedule? Those holidays off? Yeah, they stop happening.poof! D i s a p p e a r.

Gratitude.

Put it in your attitude.

Right quick, yo.

Thank your train conductor for getting you home safe. Thank the cashier at the grocery store. Thank the dishwashers. Every fucking day, yo. Treat the dishwashers with the respect you think you deserve for once. Thank the cooks who make your staff meal. Thank your chef for taking the time with you. Thank the Sous Chefs because their job is thankless. Thank the architect for the high ceilings and the incandescent lightbulbs. Thank the service staff for selling your baked goods.

EVEN IF YOU THINK YOU DESERVE WHAT SOMEONE IS GIVING YOU, SAY THANK YOU ANYWAY.

{Esteemable acts build self respect.}

Thank you could go viral.

Say Thank You. Give it freely. Give it out a lot. Give it aloud. Shake people's hands, look them in the eye. These little old fashioned things? They mean the world. To even the most cynical, modern youth.

Give Thanks. And not merely on Thanksgiving. Believe me when I say a little goes a long long way on the road to earning respect in this industry: cooks do not get respect without earning it first.

Say Thank You and Mean It. DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT. Thankful is a verb, an action. If you mean thank you then you act thank you then everyone feels your gratitude.

10 November 2010

i don't know what inspires you i don't know who inspires you i don't know why you continue to get up in the morning i don't know why you do what you do i don't know why i didn't die before i turned 30 i should have that was the direction i was heading fast furious

i don't know and you don't either. you can't because it's not ours to know maybe we can guess but it really doesn't fucking matter because all you have is now. and what is your now? is life happening to you or are you in it?

you might be wondering, what is my fucking point here? I better make it soon because you were just demolished by service and your kitchen was too damn hot tonight and the dishwasher broke in the middle of service and the most expensive protein in the walk in went off and the cream delivery never came in and no one noticed and you're starting with a longer 86 list tomorrow than your prep list and and and and.

i don't know what inspires you. but i hope you know. at least some of the time because it's so important to know why we do what we do but I'm not talking about some intellectual bullshit that's not what you're going to be able to lean into when you're so tired you can't remember how you got home even though you aren't drunk or high and perhaps haven't been for some time. a lot of time, even.

i hope you know what inspires, what motivates you, to go on because you are going to fucking need it. need it like a vein needs to be tied. need it like a baby needs to be fed need it like a dog needs direction need. i kid you not, yo. because when you get home and the voices start you will need to know why because when your family or your friends or your partner or your community call and call out your name and call you out you are going to need to know

why

even if it makes no fucking sense even if it seems absurd even if it's absolutely crazy.

it's ok to love it and be passionate but fire burns bright and it burns out and is indiscriminate in who it burns along the way.

i wish you a long, slow journey. i wish you an intentional journey. i wish for you the strength it takes to make an unapology to be the kind of selfish that not all the bad kind. i wish for you humility. i wish for you a mentor, a teacher. i wish for you to uncover learning and epiphanies and loyalties where you least fucking expect it.

this profession takes heart.

serious.

so, i don't know what inspires you i don't know who inspires you i don't know why you continue to get up in the morning i don't know why you do what you do

but i hope you take some time to think about it

because you will be tested your heart and your body and your psyche and your original book and your mind and your goals and your ego will be tested and you will be slammed up against a wall over and over and over and over and you will be challenged to assess and reassess and i wish for you

clarity.

i wish for you at least one person in your life who you know loves you no matter what mistakes you make and that you trust that person enough to listen to everything they have to say even if you're so uncomfortable that you want to zip off your skin and run away forever because you're going to need people to lean into when you barely know yourself anymore. you're going to need to be reminded why.

27 October 2010

no sleep. well, no deep sleep. few dreams. mostly passing out. trying not to fall asleep on the commute home.

never time to eat. never have time to sit and eat. no utensils to eat with. no plates, just plastic containers. on the fly. on the run. a taste here and a swallow of something substantial almost never. disparate food groups go into the mouth at odd times of the day. example:

6 am: salt cod brandade. 6:04 am: vanilla ice cream base. 6:30 am: just blanched leeks. 7 am: a carrot's stem end. 7:32 am: hot chocolate chip cookie. burn tongue. 9 am: overcooked scrambled eggs, cold {?staff meal}. 7 pm: [yes, that's right---> you eat nothing from 9 am until 7 pm.] a few cilantro leaves and a stolen celery heart. 8:19 pm: one spoon of searingly hot soup. burn tongue again. 10:16 pm: four and a half bites of cold rice, cold mystery meat, soggy limp salad. {yes, another staff meal taken in a deli cup but not eaten when hot.} 2 am: you get home and realize you have nothing to eat in the house but you're starving so you eat crackers or instant ramen or have a beer or go to sleep hungry.

lonely. spend your days nagging cooks. harp on every last detail of everyone's work. fix the dishwasher on a Saturday night. stay until 5 am pulling apart the ceiling to find a leak. bake all night because one of your bakers is out sick. yell at people for being lazy and get disrespected in evry which way but the eighth day of the week. work the craziest fucking hours anyone sane or even insane enough to hang out with, would. try your luck on the desperate alcoholics at the bar, and everyone is wondering what the mangey dog brought in. go home to a dirty apartment and sit in the dark but for the glow of secret internet meanderings. being a boss means everyone wants to be you, but few want to be with you. and you don't have the time, even if they did. most of your [old] friends have 'normal' 'civilian' lives. and if they don't eat where you work, you never see them either.

nerdy. and not in the ironic sense. your entire life revolves around the kitchen. insular. your humour, your manner, your thoughts, your viewpoints, all revolve around your kitchen, your crew, your menu, your food, your next menu, your bar sales, your craft, your purveyors, your wine rep, your tableware, your shortcomings, your youness as it relates to you. you're so self referential to your own square footage you can barely remember when you thought about anything else. people might meet you out and exclaim, "O! YOU'RE A CHEF?! R E A L L YYYY?!!! WOW. THAT'S SOOOO COOL! What a cool job!!!" And you wish you'd never said anything at all because now, on your one night off in 6 weeks, you could have heard something other than what usually comes out of your mouth, you hear yourself leave your body and talk about your kitchen, your food, your menu, your press, your staff, your you you you and more you, and even though you are watching yourself kill this innocent little Top Chef watching devotee with the real deal, the real chef's life, the real hours, the real scars, the real fucking deal, yo, from the other side of the room, or worse yet, from the ceiling like a Greek God, you can't help it. it all spills out. you talk about the seeds your favorite farmer collects and the whole lamb you broke down this afternoon and the cook you had to send to the hospital before service because he took off the side of his pinky on a mandolin. YOU CAN'T STOP TALKING ABOUT YOUR OWN LITTLE WORLD. even though now even the out-of-body you is yawning with minutae obsessed nerdiness and morbid cook humor no one but you and your world gets, you kill, you kill dead the person who could have talked TO you about something else. something, anyfuckingthing that might have actually given you THE NIGHT OFF. yeah, that one you're not gonna see until February. It's November.

bad friend. bad father. bad uncle. bad girlfriend. bad son. bad community lover. bad husband. bad mother. bad dog owner. bad roommate. bad citizen. have you ever dated a chef? we fucking suck. we're tired all the time. we stink. we never write, we never call, we never go to weddings or funerals or births. we don't have days off and we don't dare try and take them. we don't go to the doctor when we're sick. we don't take the best care of ourselves. we pay our bills late and we have trouble keeping up with our laundry. we do not respond to jury duty notices. we never see the light of day and we like to sleep on any days off we weasel out of our kitchens. we think and talk kitchen food staffing issues lists menus produce protein production ceaselessly. we don't show up on time. we don't know how to eat with utensils. we don't get holidays off, we work them, so don't ask. we're defensive, on edge, drunk a lot of the time, and we flirt with waiters. it's as bad as a dog liking a cat, but we do it. we cheat on our partners and we don't get home in time to tuck our kids in. we don't answer emails and we don't write full sentences if we manage to write at all. we don't answer the phone and if we call we wake you up because in our world the clock stops when we enter our little kitchen world. years can go by and we have no idea what's happening in the world outside our world. we are like jailed narcissists. mirrors on all sides.

sticky, stinky, bruised and burned. you often look like garbage the bridge and tunnel tourists of your town leave in your gutters as they make their way back to their pristine suburban fake lives. people avoid you walking down the street even if they've begged your host to let them eat your food just minutes before. you've been wearing the same clothes for the last 17 hours and you smell of smoke, blood, oil and onions. you get home to find chocolate and beet juice on your forehead and you wonder why no one thought to tell you to wipe it off while they cooked alongside you for the last 15 hours. your scars tell their own bar stool stories. you caught the biggest fish, fucked the prettiest girl and reached into the oven a hundred times that night with a wet towel because the kitchen ran out of linens in the middle of service. you're burned and bloody and barely patched with band aids that aren't built for hard labor.